The Fantastica Volume 1: Black Dossier
by Hattaguchi S
Summary: An experimental mass-cross-over piece involving a wide range of canons. As a new Kira arises, former heroes are forced into the light once more, shadowy figures are driven to action and the wizarding world finds itself tested like never before.
1. Chapter 1

**The Fantastica - Volume 1: Black Dossier**

**Chapter 1 - Nearer to the End than First Expected  
**_L's Base of Operations, Tokyo, 2015_

Near looped a length of hair around his finger and twirled it into a tight knot. He tilted his head, thinking.  
He spun it out again. Picked up the knight between his index finger and thumb. Lifted it with careful delicacy and held it above the board. He tilted his head further. Then he put the piece down. Twisted it, slightly, so that it faced the same way as all the white pieces. Frowned and picked it up again. He turned the piece upside down and picked a hair from it. With a grimace, he held it out. Giovanni took it from him. He put the knight down again, twisting it carefully into place.  
The computer pipped. Near didn't look up.  
"Legally you shouldn't touch the piece after putting it down, but I'll let it pass."  
Near finished adjusting the knight. He put his fingers back into his hair and twirled out another length.  
"You can't see me."  
He looked up at the computer. Giovanni nodded and typed in his move. The board displayed flickered as it shifted. A pawn had moved. Near looked down and flicked the knight aside.

"Are you sure about that?"  
Near looked away, distantly. He spun his hair out again.  
"There is no camera attached to my computer," he said, calmly. His eyes drifted back to his board.  
"I could have your building wired."  
Near rolled his eyes. The garbled voice on the computer was starting to irritate him now. The chess-player F. Roy Dean Schlippe was too rushed, too angry. And he couldn't play mind games.  
"Hurry up."  
Near reached up. Giovanni sighed and pulled the desk drawer open. He shifted through the collection and pulled out a silvery miniature jet. He leant back and placed it in Near's outstretched hand wordlessly.

"I'm waiting, Shinji Ikari."  
The speech distortion didn't disguise F. Roy Dean Schlippe's distaste for the name. Near smiled, faintly. He looked down at the board. Tilted his head.  
"Mind games don't suit you. Or is it something more? You're not stuck for a move, surely?"  
Near ignored it. He whistled slightly as the jet fell from his hand. It twisted in the air, turning into a nose-dive. It hit the floor. He frowned.  
"You're still there, Shinji. Move."  
Near picked up the jet and ran his finger along the cracked plastic. He looked up. Giovanni was sat, waiting for Near's move. He looked bored.  
Near rose, stretching. He yawned.

Giovanni covered the microphone. "Near, what's wrong?"  
Near put the broken jet down, carefully. He tilted his head. Then he looked back to the board.  
He crouched. Picked up a pawn between index finger and thumb. Lifted it, carefully, and placed it down again. Twisted it, gently. Then rose again.  
He looked up.  
"Make the move, Giovanni."  
Giovanni nodded and looked back to the computer. The board flickered as he updated the move. There was a hesitation.

"Damn."  
Near tipped the board up.  
"You beat me."  
Near pulled the desk drawer out. The distorted voice sounded surprised. Slowly, piece by piece he began to back away the chess pieces. Giovanni looked back to the screen and frowned.  
"Congratulations," the voice acknowledged. Near ignored it, again. He waved at the computer. Giovanni closed the screen.  
"That's it?" he asked, slowly.  
"That's it," Near agreed.  
"You didn't checkmate him." Giovanni said, frowning. He vaguely suspected the response.  
"He recognised the situation and that I recognised it too. He knew how it would end."  
"No bragging?" Giovanni tried.  
Near looked at him, sidelong. "I won the game."

Giovanni shrugged and turned off the computer. Near crouched down again, and picked up the jet.  
"Is this what we do now? Play games?"  
Near tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. He put his fingers to his hair.  
"Yes."  
Giovanni watched as he twirled the hair around his finger. He exhaled.

The door opened. Giovanni looked up. Near didn't.  
"What is it, Commander Lester?"  
Lester held out the file. Near didn't take it. He looked up and read it, carefully.  
"This is happening as I anticipated. There is a file in the cabinet. It's under T. I've already highlighted the contact detail required. Giovanni, contact the number specified."  
Lester frowned. "Near, perhaps we should wait before we..."  
"I know where he is," Near said, definitely. "and I know what he's doing. Giovanni, please do as I ask."

They stared for a moment more. Then Giovanni nodded.  
"Yes, L."  
Lester watched him move over to the computer. The familiar letter flashed up onto the screen. Angular, stylised. An enigma.

He looked down at Near.  
"It's good to be back in business."  
Near looked up. He held Lester's gaze for a moment, and nodded.

Lester left the file on the desk.  
Inside were the details of the thirty-three bodies discovered over the last week. All given the same time of death. All heart-attacks.

Kira had returned. Near smiled, distantly, and twirled his hair again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - Have You Ever Seen the Auror Borealis?  
**_Sunnydale, California, 2015_

"Subject 93313."

Algae Huxenbus looked down at the file pushed towards him. He took it, opening it delicately with textured dragonhide gloves. A ream of neatly jotted crimes and misdeeds flicked past his fingers as his eyes flickered from sordid detail to sordid detail. A grimy mugshot leered at him, shifting only slightly, unnaturally still, brooding.  
He shook his head and closed the file, pausing to brush a half-bitten Cockroach Cluster from a page. His partner sniffed, irritably.

The subject was a danger. Before he had been a threat only to Muggles, of little worry to the Ministry. A sick, freakish pervert with a penchant for mutilation, but of little relevance to them.  
That had changed the week before. Mrs Andromeda Speighley, a with of high standard and a gift to the world of Herbology, had been found splattered against her living room wall. The Muggle police said the attack had been interrupted. It hadn't been finished.  
It would have gotten much worse.

Algae shivered. The man had to be removed. He had ceased to be a mere threat to Muggles. Now he was really dangerous.  
Algae leant to nudge the man sat beside him in the car.  
"The International Confederation wants us to take him down?"  
His partner grunted, folding up his newspaper. "That's why we're in America, Algae."  
Algae nodded, hesitantly. He looked at the paper.  
"Not quite the _Daily Prophet_, eh?" he grinned.  
His partner ignored him. He grinned for a moment more, and then looked away. He coughed.  
Dogma Ramhorn. They'd been through Hufflepuff together, trained to be Aurors together. Algae had seen him laugh only once, when he and Morgana Nightely, a Ravenclaw girl Algae had liked, had put a tongue-twisting curse on Algae the night before his Charms exam...he'd laughed then.  
Algae shrugged and exhaled, slowly. He didn't remember laughing himself at the time.  
He threw the file onto the dashboard. Silly Muggle whimsy. A metal box on wheels. He snorted. Half-turned to Dogma.

"Hey, Dogma, this 'car'..." he stopped.  
Dogma was splayed back on his seat. His face gawping, strangely humoured in death. Thick red fluid trickled down his face. Algae's eyes popped as they travelled upwards.  
Dogma's head had been sawn open.  
The gory purple mess of his brain splurged from the bleach white of fractured skull. Algae retched, silently, pushing himself back.  
He looked up, suddenly, at the shattered car window.

Sylar looked back and smiled. The car shuddered, and lurched. A screech as the chassis bent, folding in on itself, leather upholstery, glass and plastic furnishings warping and cracking as the car mangled itself, introverting itself.  
Algae slammed himself forwards against the windscreen as it shattered. Pushed himself out as the frame crunched down on his chest. A grisly snap as ribs caved inwards, and his lungs burst. He gaped.  
Sylar stood, head tilted, curious.  
He stepped forward. Reached a hand out and ran his finger across Algae's forehead. He smiled, distantly. Algae moaned, wordlessly, body half forced from the wrangled metal cage the car had been warped into, twisted inwards and inwards by invisible forces, by the freakish joke of evolution that stood before him. Sylar laughed, mirthlessly, as Agae's torso twitched, flailing slowly, jerkily, as though played by some unseen puppeteer.

"You wizards," Sylar drawled, resting his finger above Algae's eye, "So full of mystery and intrigue. Secrets."  
He leant down, breathing into Algae's ear.  
"I'm going to find out how you work. What makes you _tick_."  
He straightened and stepped back. Algae spluttered, crimson specks staining Sylar's shirt.  
"Here. Let me show you."  
Algae screamed. Blinding red pain burnt itself over his eyes. Fire branding itself, running loops around his skull. He screamed.

The top of Algae's head flopped to the tarmac road. Sylar grimaced, enveloping the power. Fitting it into his head, squeezing it in. Felt the pain. The thrill. This one wasn't as gifted as his partner. Made more noise, though.

He looked up, startled. A crash, and he was thrown back. Brilliant blue light washed over him, stunning him, freezing his body. He groaned, forcing his head up.  
The man strode as he floated down, walking on the air. Confident, practised, angry. Rugged black hair waved behind him, an unruly mop that framed an angular face. A scar, old, split, widened by years of battle. Of hunting down the vermin of the wizarding world. The cruel monsters, by-products of a magical gift. Abusers of talent.  
He landed on the road lightly, as though stepping from the pavement. Glasses, worn and beaten, flashed in the afternoon sun. The sleepy town of Sunnydale watched, roused by the screech of the mangled car, the sound of magic and of law.  
Harry Potter brandished the wand like a sword. Sylar felt cold ice driving itself like pins into his chest, picking him up and throwing him down. He choked.

Without a word Harry lashed out. Bonds flowed from his wand, binding Sylar. Invisible cords twisting themselves around his wrists, tightening, cutting into the flesh. He groaned. Like an animal. Shot and bagged.  
Harry whistled. Four more figures crashed into being, wands brandished, alert. The small crowd of onlookers that had gathered would have to be dealt with. Aurors leave no witnesses. Their phonelines had been jinxed when Harry arrived. Harry nodded to the Aurors, who dispersed, disappearing into the crowd.  
A few memory charms and the work would be done.

Harry looked down at the bloody remnants of Algae Huxenbus. He grimaced. Not an exceptional loss to the Aurors. His partner had been more valuable. Algae had only been on the stakeout because he knew how to open a car door and didn't insist on wearing robes undercover.  
Harry had to remind himself that they'd hadn't been set up. This hadn't been a trap. He hadn't known Sylar would get to them. Not like this. Not his fault.  
His eyes drifted to the petrified figure lying in the road, body twisted, caught in mid-turn. Angry eyes glared back up at him from a frozen face. A muscle twitched on his cheek. Harry stuffed his wand back into his robes. Grabbed Sylar's arm.

"I'm Apparating back to the Ministry."  
He didn't wait for the other Aurors' acknowledgement. Didn't need to. He was in charge. Closing his eyes, he focused. Get back to the Ministry, have someone else deal with the captive. Being the boss was all too easy. He was getting lazy...his eyes flashed open.

Explosion. Scream. It was Katie Bell. He spun. Dead? Harry didn't think as he drew his wand. Auror priority should be the mark - Sylar.  
Terry Boot vanished. Either under his cloak or Apparated out. Harry forgot Sylar. Had to deal with this. Had to protect his team.  
He spun. A deafening silence hit him. A house exploded. The shockwave threw Harry back. He rolled as he landed, breathing hard.  
What was happening? A wizard under an invisibility cloak? One of the few Dark supporters still out there? Was it Sylar?  
He looked down. Sylar's eyes met his. He was sweating. Blood pumping through him, a vein throbbing on his forehead.  
Harry pointed his wand. Knocked him out. Looked up again.

Nothing. He saw Katie Bell stagger out, her face half-burnt, blackened, charred. He opened his mouth to shout.  
Explosion. Deafening. Blinding. Katie Bell was gone, hurled aside like a rag-doll. Harry stared at the comatose body on the road. It wasn't Sylar.

He shouted. Orders to Apparate. They could clean this up later. Get a team in. Harry would look for Time-Turner authorization if he had to.  
He closed his eyes. Vanished. Sunnydale disappeared around him.

He spun around. This wasn't the Ministry. Something had trapped him. He spun and screamed.

The rabbit in the corner tilted its head. Something had trapped him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 - For Now We See Through a Glass, Darko  
**_Middlesex, Virginia, 1988_

On October 2nd, Donald J. Darko died.

On March 3rd, Donald J. Darko was born.

He laughed. The world was bending inwards. Lights and colours and sounds were swirling lazily. He wasn't looking at the present. He was looking at _everything_. He could see the turbine shatter the roof of his house, ploughing downwards, crushing his bedroom. It killed him. He could see the days after that, his family trudging everywhere, mourning. He could see months before, years before. His parents buying the house. His first bicycle.  
He waved an arm. He wasn't fixed any more. He wasn't _grounded_. Someone had reached out and plucked him from the flat, linear sequence. He wasn't in March 3rd. He was somewhere above it, somewhere around it, somewhere..._different_.  
He wasn't seeing colours any more. He wasn't hearing sounds. It was..._more_.

He laughed. Laughter carrying over the world, doing laps and races over the Pacific, skimming the Arctic. He wasn't fixed any more. He was..._so much more_.

He kicked down. Soared. Concentrated. Drew physical form to himself. Wrapped himself in flesh, in skin, in black clothes. Filled in the empty space that Donnie Darko now inhabited.

He landed. Held out his hands. They glowed. The people stumbling down the streets couldn't see it. Only he could. Only he...  
He lunged. Space and time rippled with his movement. He was moving, piercing the very fabric of reality.  
March 3rd. He was moving, slipping out of the timeline, slipping over and grounding himself again. October 2nd.

He watched the turbine crush the pile of meat and bone that had once been Donnie Darko.

People couldn't see him. He moved shadows to cover himself. Moved into the place where eyes slid past, the dark blur in the peripheries. Watched as people panicked, as people lived their lives, event following event...

He was aware of the rabbit before it appeared. Of course he was. He wasn't _bound_ to it any more, wasn't _tied down _to simple cause and effect.

"What did you do to me, Frank?"

He didn't move his mouth. The words happened at once, or in reverse. It didn't matter any more. He could do it how he wanted.

Frank didn't answer. He tilted his head, curiously.

Donnie smiled, bleary eyed.

"It doesn't matter, Frank. I understand it all now. I'm free of it. Time..." the world shimmered and moved on, into the 21st century, busy shining streets, "...Space..." an explosion, people rushing, screaming, a siren blared, "...Reality."  
Frank watched, curiously, as Donnie's body inverted itself. It warped and blazed before the rabbit, becoming more distorted each time, more nightmareish, more angry.  
He flickered. Donnie again. Meat and bones.  
"I understand it now. It's just like Gretchin said. A superhero. I'm going to make things right."

He smiled, distantly. Frank watched, wordlessly. Donnie turned, sharply.

"You're going to watch it happen, Frank. You're going to watch me make the world a better place."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - Jack of All Trades  
**_Cardiff, Wales, 2015_

Panic. Rage. An animalistic roar, of fear and confusion. Sweat glistened on an alien chest far from home.  
The Hork-Bajir struck. Wrist blades scything, tail thrashing. Legs kicking.  
The animalistic roar drowned out the screams. Echoed in the cold night air. Cardiff wasn't asleep. It was being woken up.

Jack skidded, catching his balance, and ran, arms pumping at sharp, military angles, legs pumping in rhythm, practised, disciplined, hurried.  
The alien spun. Tail scattered a heavy metal bin, tipping the contents out into the road. It lashed out, blindly, unused to the Earth street lights, the unnatural orange glow that gave the city its warm hue.  
Captain Jack Harkness jumped the bins as the Hork-Bajir started to run. Sprinting its irregular loping gait. A small know of drunken revellers scattered, screaming. Jack jumped them as well.  
He was losing it. The Hork-Bajir's stride was far bigger than his. It could _move_. He watched as it crouched, coiling the spring-like muscles in its legs. It sprang, talon-like claws fastening onto a lamp-post and swinging itself up. Another death-defying leap and it was on the rooftops.  
Jack swore.

He tapped the comm on his earpiece. "It's on the rooftops."  
The answer came back, tinny and more than slightly angry.  
Jack grinned as he heard it. He tapped the comm and the voice went dead.  
He started walking. Turned into a side-alley. Past screaming bystanders. He slapped a camera phone from a youth's hand. Kept walking. They would have to ret-con the water-supply tomorrow. And trawl through the internet. The dull side of aline-hunting.  
Then again, Ianto would...he swore and shook his head. Forget Ianto. Focus.

A flash of leathery, matt-brown skin flew overhead, bridging the gap between the rooftops with one unnatural stride. Jack grabbed a drainpipe and started to climb. Hand over hand, greatcoat flying out behind him, billowing in the city breeze.  
he swung over the top with a sigh. Looked at his hands. One was cut open, bleeding freely. He must have snagged it somewhere in the climb. Damn. He closed his eyes and focused.  
He was losing his grip on pain. Forgetting what it was to be mortal...he opened his eyes. Wiped the blood away. His hand was perfect, unblemished. He looked up.  
The tail caught him in the face, throwing him backwards. He felt the air rushing past his ruptured face, before slamming down into the hard rock of the rooftop again. He rose, groaning.  
Neck broken. He snapped it back. Grimaced as his face sewed itself back, as sinews twisted and melded together again. Perhaps he hadn't forgotten pain as much as he thought he had.  
He laughed, straightening.

The Hork-Bajir was in mid-air, hurtling towards him in a perfectly calculated jump. Razor-sharp talons flashing in the Cardiff night, all arched and curved towards Jack.  
He pulled the combat revolver from his greatcoat. Levelled it and fired.  
The bullet wouldn't bring the Hork-Bajir down. For a tree-dwelling leaf-eater with the mental capacity of a five-year-old, it could take serious damage. Jack knew that. It had been engineered that way.  
The bullet caught the Hork-Bajir in the neck and snapped its head back. It gurgled, crashing into Jack, talons extended. He took the leg blades through his stomach, felt the wrist blades sink into his chest, puncturing lungs. Felt the head snap down again, horns and beak stabbing into his face, tearing open freshly healed flesh.

He fell backwards, lifeless. The Hork-Bajir went down with him.  
A black shirt billowed in the breeze, tie flying back as another figure mounted the rooftop. Swearing, it flopped over the edge, sprawling on the hard rock.  
It rose, unsteadily, red-faced, pulling a revolver from behind its back. It levelled, fired, and swore again.

The Hork-Bajir rolled, a spray of thick alien blood showering the new figure.  
"Bloody Hell."  
There was a hiss as a cigar went out. The figure brushed it against its trouser leg and relit it, doubling over, gasping for air.

Jack inhaled, suddenly, jerking upright. The figure jumped.  
"Bloody Hell!"  
"Every time, huh?" Jack winked. He felt his chest and winced. Holes were filling themselves out. He stretched and reached fingers in, helping snap a rib back into place. He brought his fingers out as the muscles began to regrow around the rib, and skin rippled over, smoothing out the wounds. He looked at the blood on his fingers for a moment, and then licked them clean.  
The finger swore again.  
Jack grinned. "Blood loss. Can't refill myself quite fast enough. Doesn't hurt to help the process."  
The figure jabbed its revolver at the lifeless Hork-Bajir.  
"What do we do with bloody ET the Ripper here?"  
Jack looked over at the body. He shrugged. "Remove it. Make sure no-one ever knows it was here. Do what we always do."

The figure nodded. It made sense. He looked back to Jack.  
"You getting up? Come on, you Yank pansy."  
Jack laughed, pushing himself up. He shook his head. An eye-socket refilled, jelly reforming and shaping itself. A pupil blotted itself into being, as an iris bloomed around it. Eyelids closed over it as they grew, first red muscles and then smooth skin. Eyelashes sprouted, curving slightly at the ends. Jack reached a hand up to feel it, and nodded.

"Back to the Hub, Gene," he grinned.  
Gene Hunt swore. "I bloody hate the 10s."  
Jack laughed. "I couldn't agree more. Just wait until the 30s. Then things _really _kick off."  
Gene shook his head, muttering. They reached the rooftop edge and swung themselves over.

Just another night's work. Torchwood were doing their job.

Just another night's work.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 -But Aizawanna Be On the Case  
**_National Police Agency Headquarters, Tokyo, 2015_

Shuichi Aizawa sat back and massaged his eyes. He was tired. Dead tired.

The phone rang. Aizawa waited until Mogi had answered it. Then he opened his eyes.  
Mogi put his hand over the receiver and leant. "It's L."  
Aizawa snapped his fingers. Matsuda nodded and pulled a headset on, tossing Aizawa another. He pulled it over his head.  
He turned back to Mogi and raised a thumb. Mogi took his hand from the receiver.

"Mogi speaking."  
"This is L. I expect the others are there."  
"We're here, L," Aizawa acknowledged. "What do you want?"  
"You know what I want."  
The voice sounded irritable. Aizawa sighed.  
"Thirty-three dead. All heart-attacks," he said, slowly.  
"All the same time of death," Matsuda added.  
"Yes," Near said, quietly. "That."

"You think he's back?" Aizawa grunted.  
"Of course he's back! It's Kira!" Matsuda yelled, waving his arms. Aizawa pouted.  
"It is the only logical conclusion at this stage," L agreed. He sounded irritable again.

"What do you want the NPA to do?" Aizawa asked, carefully. Putting everything to Near. Again. Just when Aizawa had thought it was over. Just when he'd thought it was time to do some real policing.  
"I don't want the NPA to do anything," L said, calmly. Aizawa clenched.  
"What?" Matsuda demanded. "What did he say?"  
"You can't be serious," Aizawa said, slowly, struggling to contain himself. This wasn't what he'd expected. This wasn't...he hadn't _wanted _to be dragged into the Kira case again, but...but this?

"I am serious," the distorted voice said, bluntly. "I don't want the NPA involved this time. I have everything under control."  
"That's why you called us?" Matsuda yelled. Aizawa winced, and turned to throw a pen at him.  
L's reply was brief. "Yes."

Aizawa hesitated. He didn't _want _to be dragged into the Kira case. Not again. He had family. Maybe this...he shook himself.  
"Near, are you there?" he asked, quietly.  
There was a silence. "L is here."  
"Is L sure he has it under his control?" Aizawa intoned.  
"Yes."  
Aizawa sat back. "Then the NPA will not act."  
Matsuda gaped. Aizawa looked into Mogi's eyes. The man raised an eyebrow, carefully.

"Thank-you."  
The phone went dead. Aizawa tore the headset off. He turned his chair, thinking.  
Matsuda gaped for a moment more. Aizawa knew what was coming.  
"Don't," he said, definitely. "Mogi, where's Ide right now?"  
Mogi looked blank. "Europe...London, I think. Diplomatic work."  
"Tell him to get to Cardiff. That's where the deaths were centred."  
Mogi hesitated, then nodded. He dialed the phone. Aizawa turned to Matsuda.  
"Matsuda, you're going to take a vacation."  
"What?" Matsuda burst. "I'm not being left..."  
"You'll do as your told. Take a few weeks. I heard Britain was nice this time of year."

Matsuda gaped for a second, then grinned. He winked.  
"Britain. Yes, Chief."  
Aizawa nodded, interlocking his fingers into a bridge that he rested under his nose. _Chief_. Still didn't sound...deserved.  
"Maybe you'll see Ide there. For that matter, tell Ide he's on vacation too."  
Mogi nodded. He looked back to the phone.

Matsuda disappeared from the room. Aizawa closed his eyes again.

_Chief_. Damn, it still wasn't right. And what L had said...  
Chief Shuichi Aizawa wasn't being left out of the Kira case. If anyone had earnt the _right _he had. His eyebrows furrowed, slightly.

Time to catch Kira. Again. This time without L's help.

Time to be a Chief.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 - Potter Powerless  
**_Cardiff, Wales, 2015_

He spun around. This wasn't the Ministry. Something had trapped him. He spun and screamed.

The rabbit in the corner tilted its head. Something had trapped him.

His legs gave way under him, and he collapsed.

"Ah. That'll be Donnie."  
Harry opened his eyes. The American voice sounded bemused. Where was he?  
"Cardiff."  
He pushed himself up. A field. Grass...a rabbit frozen on a verge of grass. He stared at it, perplexed. It bolted, suddenly. His eyes wandered...  
Jack Harkness grinned. Harry jumped. Hand darted in for his wand. Found it, levelled it. A memory charm on the locals, then Apparate back to the Ministry. Find out what had happened. Had he Apparated here?  
_Obliviate_!

Jack grinned again. "No can do, sport. Take his wand."  
Harry looked down at his wand. Why hadn't it worked? He looked up as the American's friend strode towards him. Apparate, Apparate!  
The man took the wand from him with thick leather driving gloves. He held it up, squinted.  
"Bloody Hell, is this what the ponce thought we'd be scared of? Playing wizards, were we? At your age?"  
Jack grinned. Harry caught the grin.  
"He is a wizard, Gene. Chloroform him. Let's get him back to the cells."  
Gene Hunt shrugged and reached into his overcoat. Harry suddenly realised how lost he was. Why wasn't his magic working? Who were these people? Some special Ministry branch? Some Dark rebel faction?

Gene lunged. The hankerchief smothered Harry's face and choked him. He kicked, angrily. Thrashed. Gene ignored it.  
Harry felt his world slip, suddenly...

* * *

"He doesn't like wizards."

Harry coughed, spluttering. He rubbed his eyes, coughing. He swivelled to look back at his captors.  
"What?"  
Jack looked disapproving. "I said, he doesn't like wizards."  
"Who doesn't?" Harry asked, bewildered. He wasn't in the mood for games.  
Jack laughed. "You didn't know who you were hunting?"  
"His name was Sylar," Harry snapped, angry.  
"Sylar?" Jack looked up at Gene Hunt. Gene shrugged. He hit the comm on his earpiece. "Tom, check the files. We're looking for a 'Sylar'."  
The voice buzzed in his ear. He looked back to Harry.

"What do you know by the name Donnie Darko?"  
Harry shook his head.  
Jack sighed. "Let's cut the chase. We know what you are, we know who you work for, and we know what you're doing. Now we want some answers. What do you know by the name Donnie Darko?"  
Harry shook his head, firmly. Knew what he was? They weren't wizards! He turned his head. He'd been taught to last out torture by Dark wizards as an Auror, _Muggles_ could hardly worry him.

Jack punched the electronic lock on the cell door. It swung open. Harry lunged, instinctively. Gene caught him around the waist and pushed him back.  
Harry rolled, raising his fists and crouching. Aurors weren't just taught to use Magic to survive.  
"This is Janet."  
His eyes bulged. The creature the American was holding wasn't human. It wasn't anything Harry had ever seen, either.  
"You have your secret dragons...we have our secret aliens," Jack shrugged. "The only difference is that we know all about your secrets."

He pushed the creature into Harry's cell. The plexiglass door swung shut and clicked as the electronic lock sealed.  
"Enjoy. When you want to give us answers, just wave."

Harry looked at the creature and backpedalled. Pushed himself into the cell's corner and scrabbled for cover.  
There wasn't any.  
The creature rose, unsteadily, stunned. A hairless head perched ridiculously on a smooth black leather-clad body, a head dominated by a shark-like maw that opened to moan, teeth glistening with drool and sweat and hunger.  
It turned beetle-like eyes on Harry. Sniffed, slit nostrils flaring. It had him.

Harry balled his fists. Covered his face. Scrunched his eyes and concentrated, focused...Apparate!

"You can't Apparate in the Hub," Jack called. He tapped his head, playfully. "Technology."

The Weevil crashed into him, snarling, jaw clamping down...


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 - When Donnie Met Sylar  
**_Sunnydale, California, 2015_

Sylar choked, and retched. Whatever power the bespectacled 'wizard' had put on him had gone. He felt the thin veins of 'magic' that had been woved through his body shrinking away, muscle suddenly waking and flexing, angry.

He spun, panicked. Suddenly he wasn't in control. Suddenly he wasn't...special enough.

The figure stood across the street. A youth...an adolescent...barely beyond a child...stood, a black hood pulled over his head, a faded white skeleton etched over his clothes. A Halloween costume.  
Sylar frowned. The figure turned.

His eyes were dead. Bleak, black, swirling. Sylar looked into them and felt the overwhelming truth, the truth that he could never come close to being special, to being _powerful_ when this...when _this_ walked and...  
The figure had torn a house apart. Thrown the wizards aside, made them..._go_. He hadn't killed them, Sylar knew that. They had just gone. Ripped from the fabric of space itself, ripped and thrown aside.  
He had done all this and he didn't seem to realise it.

He was swaying, slightly. Sylar wondered if he could see him. If he was aware of anything around him. He had looked angry before, angry when he saw the wizards...now he just looked...vacant.

He was insane. Even Sylar could see that. Whatever person, whatever sense of humanity had once existed was gone. He was spiralling, crashing. Power ebbing from him...power that dwarfed anything Sylar had, anything Sylar _knew_.

He was Donnie Darko. He was making the world a better place. Piece by piece.

The figure distorted, suddenly, the world wrapping in around it for one brief, rendering second. Sylar felt time stop, felt space tear and suddenly the figure was gone. Moved on, stepping into some other time, some other place, apathy slowly disintegrating morality and justice, until everything he did was just blind anger and power.

Sylar collapsed, overwhelmed. The figure had been everything. All the power Sylar could ever want. And he made Sylar distinctly un-special.

He let his eyes wander. They fell to the wreckage of Huxenbus' car. The mangled body, head scalped and sawn open, brains wrenched out, their power...their 'magic' sucked out and absorbed. Added.  
Sylar grinned, slowly. He might not be all-powerful yet, but he was rising. He was progressing. That was what made him special. That was what made him special. What made him better than the figure...better than the two empty shells rotting in the hot metal cage before him.

_Magic_. The word the wizards used for their incredible gift. Sylar knew better. What they called magic, he called _evolution_. _Genetics_. Darwinism could explain what these wizards, with their secrecy, their contempt for the lesser humans...the unevolved, the 'Muggles', Darwinism could explain what they could not.  
They had existed side-by-side humanity for centuries...carefully guarding whatever freak gene had surfaced, whatever freak of DNA had allowed them to be...so much more than everyone else. They had kept the gene, the evolution, from reaching humanity. They had restrained the flow of progress.

Sylar felt the 'magic' running through him now. Felt the power the wizards so closely guarded...and what was more, he was something _else_. Because he was pushing evolution _forward_. He was driving natural selection to its peak. His powers were multiplying by the day. By every gifted individual he met, his powers were _growing_. Progress.

He needed to learn about this...this _magic_. It wasn't so natural, so simple as the ones before. It was _tainted_. Humanity...wizards...had _named_ it, categorized it, made it something you learn in school...he hesitated.  
The wizards needed names for these 'spells'...if Sylar was to progress, he would need to learn these names.

He had learnt about the wizards in a diner just outside Nevada. Some drunk had gotten careless, decided to show off a little gift he had. Something about it hadn't been right. Hadn't been the same as all the other gifts he'd seen.  
The drunk had used a wand.  
Sylar had cornered him. Asked him questions. Learnt everything the fat waste knew about the wizarding world. Not much. The drunk had been what the wizards called a _squib_. Magically-impaired. A shameful anomaly for a wizarding parent to give birth to. Squibs were sent into the Muggle world to adjust, rather than let them be second-class in the wizarding world. The whole thing stank of the same fetid arrogance and contempt that Sylar saw running through the whole of the wizarding world.  
What was more, the wizarding governments that sat unseen astride the 'Muggle' governments never kept record of their squibs. Forgot about them.

The drunk had learnt the odd charm. Worked hard to be something he wasn't. Reached in and found the inkling of magic that existed within him and dragged it out.  
He now did spells for the smattering of coins the regulars would throw for him.

Sylar knew what it was to feel second-class. To feel unspecial in a very special world. He even mildly regretted opening the drunk's head, feasting on what dregs of power there were.

The drunk had led him to an elderly mother, an old woman in a cushy chair in some living room in uptown Chicago.  
He'd been interrupted in his progress, however. Police had driven him from the house. Too many to ignore. His infamy was slowing him down.

He'd found the power he needed now. Used what the drunk had said, what he'd said about the Aurors, the wizarding 'police' from the United Kingdom. Turned the tables and cut their heads open, one by one.  
He hadn't counted on their reinforcements arriving so soon. He hadn't known about Apparating. The drunk had probably forgotten about it by then.  
Now he needed to refine it. To learn the names, the words, the spells. The drunk had spoken of a school, a prestigious school, an elitist academy for the wizards to send their children. It was in England, far from Sylar's notereity in the States.  
A place the Aurors would never think to look.  
He would go there, blend in, _learn_. Progress. A janitor, a groundsman...manual tasks the contemptuous wizards would never think to look at closely. From there, observe. Learn. _Progress_.

Sylar was going to Hogwarts.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 - One Flew Over the Sparrow's Nest  
**_Kingston, Jamaica, 2015_

The figure slouched against the wall of the murky Jamaican bar squinted as he up-ended a glass. He ran a careful finger around the inside and licked it, gingerly.  
He dropped the glass and sat back, sighing. It shattered on the table.  
From across the room, a woman was laughing. Jack could see her friend elbowing her, her hand pressed against her mouth, hiding the laughter. Trying not to to make it obvious who they were laughing at.

He pulled the bandanna from his head, and looked at it. Ridiculous. An all too shiny, all too clean parody of what he once wore. Of what he once _was_. An open white shirt that was too fresh, too _white_, wasn't right, either. Days were when he wore shirts so grainy, so faded and so crusted with sand and sea salt they'd be _yellow_. Now...

"Something wrong?"  
He looked up, sharply. A hand went to a cutlass that wasn't there. The man in the leather jacket smiled, wanly.  
"Mind if I take a seat?"  
Jack waved his hand, drunkenly, as the man sat, ignoring it. He smiled again. The same smile. The same...lifeless, mirthless smile.

"Jack Sparrow, formerly of the piratical rank of captain." the man said, plainly, placing a steel case on the table, and scattering glass shards onto the floor.  
"Who wants to know?" Jack slurred, raising an eyebrow. His hand was searching under the table. Pulled open a leather satchel. Found what it was after.  
The man in the leather jacket smiled the same smile again. "I represent a Company, Mr Sparrow, that has a great deal of interest in you."  
"One moment, if you please," Jack slurred, waving the words away. "There is one thing I believe you should know first. One very important thing, that may just change your entire life until this point."  
He waved the hand again, drunkenly, and blinked. The man in the leather jacket sat back, bemused.  
"Mr Sparrow, please..."

The hand came down, along with the knife clutched in it. Jack cleared the table before the man in the leather jacket had even had time to realise, and snatched the steel case.  
With a flourish, he bowed.  
"You will always remember this as the day you _almost_ caught Captain Jack Sparrow."  
He fled.

The man in the leather jacket grimaced, rising, and then stopped. He looked down at his hand, as though realising for the first time.  
With a sigh, he wrapped a hand around the knife's handle. Horn, ornate, carved. Old. Fitted. He pulled it free and examined his hand.  
It wasn't bleeding. It couldn't. He didn't have any blood to bleed.

The man in the leather jacket turned and followed Jack Sparrow.

* * *

"You can't escape, Jack."  
Jack stopped, and rolled his eyes. The man in the leather jacket walked, paced strides, calling to him with the same, cold, measured, mirthless voice.  
"You don't belong here. I know how that feels."

Jack spun, angry. He jabbed a finger into the man's chest, stopping him. "You don't know the half of it."  
The man in the leather jacket grinned, wanly. Jack sneered and walked away.

"I know that you found the Fountain of Youth, Mr Sparrow. That you can't age any more. That my employers put a great deal of effort into finding you again."  
Jack stopped again, and closed his eyes. The man in the leather jacket continued.  
"It isn't so nice being a pirate in the modern world, Mr Sparrow. People aren't so free as they once were. Open the case, Mr Sparrow."  
Jack found the clasps on the steel case and unfastened them. They were locked, but it didn't matter. He'd had centuries to ensure locks didn't get in his way. He opened the case.  
Inside was a handgun. A collection of passports in a plastic folder, all with his picture, all with an assortment of names, countries of origin. A leather wallet of credit cards sat in one corner of the case. _Visa_, _American Express_, _Natwest_...all under different names, different banks. An array of cards promising car hire in every state, every country. Privileged guest access for a wide variety of hotels, all under different names.  
He shifted through it, carefully. Slowly the contents vanished into his sleeve, which bulged as he went.

Underneath it all was a paper folder. He flicked through it. There were the details of a case. A mission.  
Someone wanted to hire him.

"The Company is very interested in your co-operation and future employment with them, Mr Sparrow."  
Jack turned on the man in the leather jacket. He snapped the case shut and threw it back to him. The man in the leather jacket didn't blink as it hit him in the stomach and fell away.  
"I don't think I'll be doing that though," Jack leered, stepping back. "Savvy?"  
The man in the leather jacket smiled, wanly. His arm came up. He snapped back the safety on the handgun he was holding.  
"No tricks, Mr Sparrow. We want your honest employment, or we will happily terminate your existence."  
Jack jumped back, arms waving. He found the handgun from the case and tucked it behind his hand. He knew more about slight of hand than some hired goon from some shady company that knew a little too much about his past. He'd had alot of practise.

"You can't kill me, remember? Fountain of Youth, and all that. So how about you put that piece down, matey?"  
The man in the leather jacket didn't move. "The Fountain stopped you ageing. It did nothing for your...shootability."  
Jack nodded. "Well done, matey, well done, well noticed. Unfortunately..."  
The man in the leather jacket shot first. Jack yelped as the gun was shot from his hand.  
He looked from the gun on the ground to his hand and back to the man.  
"That was fast."  
"Dead fast," the man in the leather jacket agreed.  
"I suppose I could see my way to doing some small business with such a keen shot as yourself," Jack allowed, sucking his fingers. The bullet had glanced his knuckle. It hadn't even hit him. "Might I ask what said Company is so desirous of my presence that they send so...able a man such as yourself?"

Owen Harper holstered the handgun and smiled, wanly.

"The East India Trading Company, Jack. Welcome aboard."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 - Answers and Intrigue  
**_Cardiff, Wales, 2015_

Jack grunted as he pulled the Weevil back. With an air of drilled precision Gene Hunt drew a spray can and hosed the snarling creature.  
It collapsed, docile. Jack pushed it into the adjacent cell and hit the electronic lock. He turned back to Harry, who lay curled into a defensive ball.

"Again? I don't think it touched you that time."  
Harry shook his head, plaintively. Jack grinned.  
"Let's answer some questions then."  
There was a buzz in his ear. He tapped the earpiece.  
"Jack here."  
"It's Tom," the voice crackled. "You'd better get up here."  
Jack looked at the wizard curled up in the cell and frowned. "Urgent?"  
"Very," the voice warned. Jack nodded.

"We'll leave you to catch your thoughts. Gene, with me."

* * *

"What's the situation?"

The man stood by the glowing computer station looked up.  
"It looks like L, Jack."  
"Ah," Jack grinned. "About time. It's been awhile since he interrupted us."

The computer display flickered from a fluidic mass of blue to plain white. A small, nondescript letter stood squat in the centre of the screen. _L_. Jack crossed his arms.  
"Are you there, Torchwood?" the garbled voice asked, calmly.  
"We're listening," Jack said, looking around the Hub. Torchwood's underground lair. There was a clatter as Gene shifted machinery from a table to lean against. A nervous sideways glance from Tom Jackman. It'd been a blessing finding him. The last of Dr. Jekyll's descendants...technically one of Hyde's bastard descendants, but Jack wasn't one to quibble. Both unassumingly brilliant as Jackman, and terrifyingly destructive as Hyde.  
His eyes fell on the last of his team. Elijah Baley, a homicide detective from the future, who'd found himself sucked through the Rift like all the other detritus and junk that came through. He exhaled, blowing a ribbon of smoke into the air, and met Jack's eyes.  
A detective from the future was never without demand. Jack knew his value to Torchwood. His forced exile from his own time, his wife and friends, was one Jack could almost empathise with. Almost. He wasn't out of his own time. He made his own time.

His team. His Torchwood. The last time L had contacted him, he'd threatened all Jack's team, put their lives on the line to help in the Kira case. Torchwood had been prominent in the exploration of paranormal explanations. They'd gone so far as capturing a Shinigami. It had been dangerous, and it had been costly, but Jack had done it.  
Now L was back in touch. What price would Jack pay this time? What risk would L make them take, for the preservation of humanity, for the defeat of Kira?

"As you may be aware, Kira has returned."  
Tom's eyebrows raised. Jack sighed. Gene looked blank. He had been drafted in after the last Kira case. After he'd been found washed up by the Rift. The same went for Elijah.  
"I'm aware," Jack admitted. Thirty-three deaths, all with the trademark signs of the Death Note. All centred on Cardiff. "What is your plan, L?"  
"There has been a steady death rate since the thirty-three based around the Cardiff area. This new death rate has returned to Kira's usual habit, killing criminals worldwide. As of yet, no demands have been made."  
Jack nodded. "The deaths in Cardiff weren't based on criminal activity. There was no justice behind them. It was mostly local authority, politicians, heads of police. Someone wants to leave Cardiff open."  
"Agreed. There is clearly an intention of taking control of an asset Cardiff possesses," the distorted voice agreed.  
There was a silence in the Hub. Jack cleared his throat. "The Rift."  
"Indeed," L confirmed. "It would appear the more Kira-like justice killings are simply an attempt to cover this motive."  
"They haven't reached Torchwood," Tom said, looking to Jack.  
"That's because Torchwood maintains secrecy," the voice said, calmly. "A policy I would advise you to maintain."  
"Whoever has the Death Note must be aware of us, though," Jack said, quietly. "Otherwise they'd have taken the Rift already."  
"They don't know your names, or your strength, but they are aware of you, yes," the voice acknowledged. "They are attempting to draw you out."  
Jack frowned. "You sound pretty sure."

"That's because I know who has the Death Note," the voice said, quietly.  
There was a silence. Jack leant over the workstation, the black letter burning into his eyes.  
"Who has it?"  
"A company known as the East India Trading Company," L said, coldly. "I am aware of this because they, through a variety of proxy organisations, made steps as to discovering the location of the Death Note I possess some time last year."  
"I thought you said you burnt the Death Note you recovered," Jack said, slowly. His grip on the workstation tightened.  
The voice hesitated. "I lied."  
Jack closed his eyes. "Did this company succeed in finding your Death Note?"  
"No," L admitted. "but I believe they attracted the attention of a Shinigami in their search."  
"So they now have a Death Note," Jack sighed. "I take it yours is in a secure location?"  
"Yes. It will never be used."

"Fine," Jack straightened. "I take it you can organise a raid on this company. You have the connections, L."  
"The company does not work like that. It works through proxies, fronts and agents who have no idea who they are exactly working for. There is no central base of operations to take. This is why I have contacted you."  
"You think we can do something?" Jack said, slowly. He could guess where this was leading, and he didn't like it.

"Yes. This is a different game to the one played earlier. The goal is no longer to reveal Kira's identity. It is a matter of unravelling the Company, and terminating their possession of the Death Note."  
Jack nodded. "What do you want us to do?"  
"Stay in the Hub. We can assume the Company have the Shinigami Eyes. They have the authority and manpower to halve one subordinate's lifespan."  
"We need to guard the Rift," Jack intoned, firmly. "If the wrong people try to control it, it means everyone's in danger. And not just in our world, or in our time. Everyone."  
"Indeed. This is also your priority. You will not be receiving help from your government, unfortunately. The Company has already used its Kira persona to threaten select figures of authority as to how military deployment around the Rift would be punished. You are alone in this, Torchwood."

"We've gotten used to that," Jack grinned. The rest of the team watched in silence.  
"I am working with other contacts as to unravelling the Company and removing the threat. If I have need of you..."  
"You'll call," Jack interrupted. "Are we done, L? I have preparations to make."  
There was a silence.  
"Yes," L agreed. "We are done."

The screen flickered to the default fluidic blue. Jack looked up at his team. At Torchwood.

"Let's save everyone," Jack grinned. "Again."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 - No Ide  
**_Cardiff, Wales, 2015_

"Where are you?"  
a looked around. "Cardiff. I think. Everything smells different here."  
"Concentrate, Matsuda!" Aizawa snapped. Matsuda grimaced and nodded.  
"Yes, Aizawa."  
"Good," the voice on the phone crackled slightly as Matsuda walked on. "This should be a secure phoneline, so all you need to worry about is being overheard."  
"Gotcha," Matsuda acknowledged, ducking into an alleyway. He walked on, in the shade.  
"We need to find out what's so special about Cardiff. Why Kira's first actions were focused on the city."

"You want me to go spy around?" Matsuda asked, puffing out his chest. He caught a reflection of himself in a steel bin. He winked.  
"No," Aizawa snapped. "I want you to find Ide."  
"Wha..." Matsuda yelped.  
"He said he'd meet you at the..." Aizawa checked his notes. "...Millennium centre."  
"I looked there," Matsuda complained. In his office, Aizawa threw a pen, irritably. It bounced from the waste-paper bin and hit the wall. He sat back, sighing.  
"Matsuda, wait by the Millenium centre. Find Ide. Then contact me again."  
Matsuda hesitated, and then nodded. "Yes, Aizawa-san."  
He closed the phone and pocketed it.

Leaning back against the alley wall, he sighed. The Kira case. Again. Last time...he didn't want to think about last time.  
He'd been _betrayed_ last time. That was enough.  
Aizawa wanted to do well. Wanted to live up to Chief Yagami. Wanted to prove the NPA didn't need mavericks like Near. Wanted to prove he was good enough. Matsuda sighed again.

The Death Note had alot to answer for.

* * *

Ide nodded, attentively.

"You're sure this is what you saw?"  
The man pointed up at the rooftops, wide-eyed.  
"I know what I saw. This big lizard thing jumped up there, and stabbed some guy...had horns, and big claws all over it...kind of like a...a dinosaur or something. But with more claws."  
Ide nodded again and put his pen away. "Thank-you for your time, sir."

He turned and walked away. He ignored the man's calls.  
Aliens, monsters. The city was more full of conspiracists than all Japan. Mutants in the sewers, drugs in the water supply, sex-crazed gas clouds...he rolled his eyes. Gas clouds. He _wished_.  
He checked his phone. Aizawa had called. Damn. Probably wanted to know if he'd met Matsuda yet. Since Ide was the only one of the two that knew any English, it had made sense that they work together. Ide sighed. _Matsuda_. He'd been putting off the endless prattle the man came out with. If he made _one_ jibe about his love life...  
He turned the phone over and checked the batteries. Not good. He dialled the number.  
Holding it to his ear he hummed, patiently.

"Aizawa-san?"  
"No."  
Ide frowned. "What?"

The figure caught him around the waist and carried him to the floor. Ide gasped, winded, as the first punch came down.  
It knocked his head back cleanly, crashing it against the pavement. Ide's eyes flickered and shut.

The figure rose, panting slightly. Someone was showing a little too much interest in the paranormal around Cardiff. The East India Trading Company had a distinct interest for that kind of people.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11 - Alphard Seiko  
**_Hogsmeade, Scotland, 2015_

"May I help you?"  
Sylar looked up into the old woman's eyes and smiled.  
"Oh, excuse me, I seem to have gotten lost. Would you happen to know the way to Hogwarts?"  
The old woman frowned, slightly.  
"My name is Professor McGonagall. I work at the school."  
Sylar took his hat off and held it in his hands. Sincerity radiated from his eyes.  
"Well, I am sorry, ma'am. I didn't know."  
"That's quite alright," McGonagall sniffed. "What was it you wanted at the school?"  
Sylar reached into the pocket of the robes he was wearing. Ridiculously, fairy-tale things. He'd had to trudge miles through boggy ground and mud to reach the village of Hogsmeade, and then had to slink into some poxy wizard's shop to buy clothes, dripping mud over the carpet.  
He'd had money. It didn't matter how, but he had money. And he doubted anyone would find the body after what he'd done to it.

He found the slip of paper and handed it to her. She inspected it, critically.  
"You've come about the groundskeeping vacancy we have, then?"  
Sylar nodded, earnestly. "I always wanted to work for a real British wizard's school."  
McGonagall sniffed. "You're not British, then?"  
"No, ma'am, I'm American," Sylar smiled, shyly. "Parents always told me, if you're a good wizard, you'll get sent to Hogwarts. To learn from the best."  
McGonagall raised herself slightly higher. "Indeed?"  
"Yes, ma'am."  
She pulled a hankerchief from her sleeve and blew, delicately. "I suppose as nice a young man as you might as well come with me back to the school. The wee ones will be ready to go shortly."  
Sylar looked taken aback. He reached out a hand. "Really? Gee, thank-you ma'am, thank-you. I'd really appreciate that, really I would."

McGonagall hid a smile, shaking his hand. "Indeed."  
A voice called out. She looked up.  
"Here they come now. Ah, Mr Filch, are the children rounded up sufficiently?"  
What appeared to be a shuffling collection of moulding brown rags snorted and nodded, vehemently. McGonagall sniffed and turned, walking away from the village onto the dusty path that trawled into the hills.  
Sylar frowned, scanning the landscape. The drunk had told him Hogwarts was a castle...how far were they walking?

There was a high-pitch giggle from behind him. He turned, slowly.

The procession of school children was watching him as they went past, trailing after the hag. Sylar smiled, sweetly.  
"Hello, children. I'm going to work for your school."  
He smiled again, and followed McGonagall. Young, fresh, potential. Magic bursting from their little bodies. All ready to learn, to become future upholders of their secret world.  
Sylar was going to learn. Was going to open the school up and see how all the little pieces worked. How every spell, every trick and every illusion worked.  
And no-one could stop him.

Then he saw it. Shifting, shimmering in the backdrop of the green Scottish hills, was a castle. Shifting, one second bustling with colour and activity, a jumbled mass of towers and spires and walls, and great pitches with hoops and stands, the next second a ruin, a wreckage of rock and rubble, a lone sign warning people away.  
A trick to ward away the Muggles. Of course. But Sylar wasn't a Muggle. Not any more. He was _special_. He could see through their trick, because Algae Huxenbus and his partner had been able to.

No-one could stop him.

"Young man!"  
Sylar looked up, innocently. McGonagall smiled.  
"I never asked you what your name was."

Sylar thought about it. Then he smiled.

"Call me Seiko. Alphard Seiko."

She smiled, innocently. "Hagrid will appreciate this help, Alphard. He hasn't been quite the same since Dumbledore..."

Sylar nodded, thoughtfully. "I understand, ma'am. I only hope I can help. It's all I've ever wanted to do."

No-one could stop him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12 - In Good Company  
**_London, England, 2015_

"Put these on."  
Jack Sparrow took the pair of tinted glasses from Owen Harper's hand and squinted at them. They reflected his face back at him, perfectly mirrored. Owen slipped his own pair on and walked on, pushing his way through the busy street.  
"No. They don't go with my attire."  
"Your modern-day Long John Silver thing?" Owen retorted. "Put them on."  
"What are we doing in..." Jack put them on. He stopped. "Jesus, mate, did you see..."

"Yes," Owen said, without moving his head. "I see it."  
A building had erupted from pavement, squeezing itself into place between two neighbouring establishments. A wooden sign sprouted from the brickwork, and creaked in the city breeze.  
"The Leaky Cauldron?" Jack read, slowly. Owen grabbed his arm.  
"Don't look like you're surprised, don't look like you're new, don't look suspicious. Blend."  
Jack pulled his arm back and sniffed, raising his head. He strode after Owen as they pushed their way into the tavern.

"Ahoy there, Skeletor. We still in London?"  
Owen's eyebrows furrowed above the mirrored glasses.  
"Skeletor?"  
"The undead thing," Jack said, waving a hand. He looked around. A dwarfish figure pushed past his leg, grumbling. A woman picked at a wart on her nose, cackling slightly. She leered at Jack.  
"I'm not _undead_," Owen hissed. "I'm just...technically not alive at the present moment. It's complicated. Don't draw attention to it."

They began to tread a path through the bustling tavern. A man in a pointed hat smoked a pipe, pensively. As Jack watched, he reached into the folds of the moth-eaten grey sack of rags he was wearing and drew out a small, dark brown frog, wriggling and kicking as he dangled it between greasy finger and thumb. He ate it, suddenly, biting down with small, rotting teeth. Jack winced.

They emerged, suddenly, into the crisp air of the outside. A small, empty back-alley, outside the tavern, that led onto a plain brick wall. Owen approached the brick wall with the air of a bomb disposal technician.  
Jack looked from Owen to the tavern door behind them, and frowned. He breathed in.  
"What in the name of the Mother Mary was _that_?"  
Owen didn't look up. "The glasses let you see the things non-magical people usually can't."  
Jack waved a hand. "Didn't quite explain anything there, mate."  
"That was a wizarding bar."  
"Ah," Jack nodded. That was enough. He'd seen stranger.

"Got it."  
Owen stepped back. Jack noticed it and took a step back. Then the wall started shifting.  
"Wizarding wall?"  
"Yeah."  
The bricks settled into place. Owen and Jack stepped out into the sunlight of a busy wizarding street.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," Owen grinned, mirthlessly. "We get the Cloak and get out. I hate being here."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13 - Unlucky For Some  
**_Cardiff, Wales, 2015_

The figure grunted as it lifted Ide's limp body and carried him to the waiting car.

The waiting driver leaned over to push the door open, and the figure forced Ide into the backseat. He then slammed the door and slid into the passenger seat.  
"Done. Let's get back to base and see what the chief has to say."  
The driver smiled, unpleasantly. The figure frowned and turned.  
"You aren't..."  
"My name is Lester. No, I'm not the man you arrived with. Needless to say, I am the man with the gun."

The figure froze and swore. Lester swung the handgun in a neat arc, crashing it into the man's temple. He slumped over the dashboard.  
He lifted his sleeve to speak into it. "I have apprehended the men, L."  
"Good."  
"Two. Both Caucasian males. I have one gagged and bound in the trunk, the other unconcious in the front seat. No identification on the gagged one, both wearing similar black suits. There's a metal case in the car with a collection of false passports and driving licenses," Lester leant over to open the unconcious figure's jacket. He pulled a handgun out, carefully. "Both were armed. Also in the car is Ide. Unconcious."  
"Good," Near agreed, crackling on Lester's sleeve. "Get Ide and the prisoners out. Set up base in a new hotel. Lose the car."  
"Will do," Lester put his wrist down and turned back to Ide. He grabbed his arm and shook him.

Ide's eyes opened. He stared, dumbstruck. Lester rolled his eyes.  
"Sorry about that," he apologised, switching effortlessly from an American drawl to fluent Japanese. "Near knew Aizawa would take the case. We needed bait."  
"You used me?" Ide goggled. Lester shrugged.  
"Sorry. Near just figured you'd be obvious enough that you'd get captured. We've rigged the city CCTV, we were tailing you. You were never in any danger."  
Ide stared silently at the car floor. Then he looked up, puzzled.  
"Did they get Matsuda?"

Lester froze. "Matsuda's here?"  
Ide hesitated, and shrugged. "Maybe."  
"Damn," Lester held his wrist up to speak into it. "Did you hear that, L?"  
"Yes," Near admitted. "Please do not call me Near out-loud again. I suspect the car may be wired. It does not give away my true identity, but I would appreciate it if we avoided giving clues to the enemy in the future."  
Lester looked around at the car, eyes wide. He gestured to Ide, and they shifted the figure front the passenger seat into the back. Then they drove on.

As night fell, a lone figure dived from an open car door as it plummetted into the Cardiff bay. Lester swore as he trudged onto the beach, wringing the water from his shirt.

Near had taken his first piece on the chess board.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14 - We're Torchwood  
**_Cardiff, Wales, 2015_

Jack spun the ball and threw it, jumping.

It caught the basket and bounced off, crashing into a desk. He laughed, and looked around. Tom Jackman stood working a station, checking up file reports on the Company. Mapping out a history. Trying to work out how to unravel them, to bring them down. He was nearing middle-age. Too old to play basketball. Elijah Baley sat in his chair taking a metallic ball apart. It glowed, slightly They'd found it washed up by the Rift weeks back, and now they were house-bound Elijah had decided to take the time working it out. Reckoned it was from his era. He had had a wife. Too old, too old.

Gene Hunt caught his gaze, lounged over a desk. He shook his head, grimly.

They weren't the old Torchwood. This wasn't Gwen and Owen and Tosh and...Ianto. These were survivors. People washed up were they didn't want to be, like so much flotsam and jetsam on so many desolate shores. They didn't want to be here. This wasn't a _team_. Not like...not like before.

The door to the cells hissed as it opened. Jack walked through, ignoring the snarls as he passed Janet's block.  
He stopped and turned. Harry Potter looked up.  
"Can I have a minute?"  
Harry shrugged. Jack hit the electronic door lock and stepped in. He crouched, sitting beside the man.  
There was a silence, for a moment. Then Jack spoke.

"Married?"  
"Yeah," Harry said, dryly. He pushed his head back against the cell wall.  
"Happily?" Jack wondered.  
"Yeah. Why?" Harry asked, suspiciously.  
Jack laughed. "I'm bored."  
"Oh God," Harry sighed.  
"Relax, I wouldn't do you. Well...I would, but not right now," Jack grinned. "I want to talk."  
"Go on."  
"There's a company I once worked for. One small job, when I had less principles. A company that set itself on principles of greed, colonialism. A by-product of the sudden wealth new land brought. What began as business became conquest. Ruthless, trying to spread their influence across the known world, their power rising as the map got filled in."  
Harry frowned. Jack continued.  
"This company disappeared. Went under as the British government started taking more authority over its dominions. Vanished. Then one day it resurfaces, and suddenly it has fingers in every pie going. And now my team is being threatened and everything we know is at risk."

Harry shook his head. "Why are you telling me this?"  
"Because I know you aren't behind it," Jack grinned. "and I know that you have contacts I don't."  
"The East India Trading Company," Harry said, quietly. Jack started.  
"What?"  
"The East India Trading Company. I know it. I've had Aurors investigating it for years."  
Jack grinned. "What do you say we help each other out?"  
"Wait, you're letting me go?" Harry said, perplexed. Jack shrugged.  
"I have the odd contact in your Ministry. He helped fill in some details. Beyond that, all we did was pick you up from where Donnie left you."

"You're going to have tell me about Donnie," Harry admitted, as Jack helped him up.  
"I think I have alot to tell you about," Jack grinned.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15 - Unseen Revelations  
**_Diagon Alley, London, 2015_

"Invisibility cloak," Jack Sparrow called. "What's that then?"

"A cloak," Owen grunted, flattening his hands out against the pane of frosted glass. "That makes you..._eh_...invisible. Surprisingly."  
He pushed, suddenly, and the glass sheet fell inwards. White, cold hands shot forward to catch it before it shattered on the shop floor.  
"We're in," Owen nodded. "Just step over and _act natural_. You'd be amazed by what you can get away with in a wizard's street. The strange...doesn't seem...so strange..."  
He finished fitting the glass window pane back into place as Jack stepped through. They stood in the gloom of the shop, surrounded by rows upon rows of dusty old cloaks. The thick cobwebs that clung to the rafters waved, slightly, caught on some sluggish draught and sent spiralling about, dangling and bobbing away. The shop had been closed for some time, it seemed.

"Will you want to know why your new employers want to acquire such a cloak, or will further questioning not be necessary?" Owen asked, disappearing into the murky shadows of the store's back room.  
Jack stood, for a moment framed by the dim glow of outside light that fought to penetrate the thick grime that layered the window pane, and then strode towards the heavy-topped counter. He rummaged through the drawers, slinging himself down into a dusty leather swivel chair behind.

"Alright, mate," he drawled, drawing out a golden-topped bottle from the counter's lower drawers. "What do my esteemed - and not at all murderous or treacherous - new employers want with a cloak what can make said wearer..._mmm_...invisible?"  
He unscrewed the bottle and gingerly sniffed the gloopy brown syrup within. There was a clatter from the back room and a curse. He shrugged, and tipped the bottle back.  
"Investment," Owen grunted, emerging from the murky depths of the store. Coated in chalky, powdery dust, he held a slender wooden crate under one arm. He spat, spitting out no spittle but a cloud of dry ashes. It nestled in his eyebrows and clung to his leather coat.

Walking over to where Jack reclined behind the counter, Owen put the crate down and patted himself off. The dust billowed everywhere, distorting the store's shadowy interior for a beat, making everything not only dark but _hazy_.

"An investment," Owen repeated. "Is my best bet. Something's coming. I don't know what. But it's something big. And when it comes, they want to know that they have _assets_."  
"Assets like that there invisibility cloak?" Jack noted, rapping on the thin wooden crate with one of his heavy brown boots.  
Owen shook his head. "That isn't the cloak."  
Jack frowned.

Owen pulled a clasp knife from the inside of his jacket and brought it down on the crate. He levered it open it one neat, crisp movement. The wooden box fell apart, revealing a single, dimly glowing ring nestled on a bed of gossamer white straw.

Jack sat upright, pulling himself closer. Owen smiled, wanly. An emerald green glow touched their faces, briefly, flickering.

"That," he grimaced. "Is a power ring. Used by some interstellar police force known as the 'Green Lanterns'. This one was recovered by the Company some time in the late 40s, just off the coast of Cuba. Its past wielder was washed up on the west coast, State-side, some months later. A six-armed blue fucker the size of a house. Came down to Earth from God-knows-where _without a ship_."  
"Hold on there, mate," Jack raised his hands. His eyes never left the ring. "Aliens?"  
Owen gave him a sceptical glance. "Don't say you haven't heard stranger."  
Jack thought for a moment, and then shrugged. "Go on."  
"The ring is powered by will-power. With it you can do pretty much anything your imagination can come up with...fly through space, punch holes through walls, punch holes through _planets_...whatever."

Owen reached down and picked up the ring, delicately. He held it between thumb and forefinger, turning it over, gently.

"It got some use in the 50s, when some giant lizard monster rose up from the sea to attack Japan. The Company decided they wanted to bring it in for testing thanks to some healing factor it had going on, and sent a squad out with this ring to neutralise it. The boys that tried out this thing then didn't really know what they were doing, ended up running down most of its power and taking out most of Tokyo. So now we have an under-powered ring that we can't recharge."

"What I don't understand," Jack gestured, his eyes following the ring as Owen turned it over in his hands. "Is why our Company friends chose to put it here, in this funny little wizarding shop. I had assumed, by the inconspicuous manner in which you have made me travel here, that the wizards weren't exactly on our side."  
"They aren't," Owen admitted. "but the ring's former owners aren't either. Right here we can hide the ring under the ward of the wizard's magical fields, which seem powerful enough to distort whatever scanning facilities the Green Lantern Corps have looking for this ring. The ring isn't particularly potent in the state it's in nowadays, so it isn't too much of a risk to leave out of Company grounds. Besides, this store is better protected than it might seem."  
Jack raised an eyebrow, slowly. "Mate, I don't know if you can recall, but we crawled in through the window."  
"Company technicians installed a security field around that," Owen said, flatly. "They have every man and woman under Company jurisdiction DNA tagged. If you weren't the right person, you'd get fried. Not magic, as such, but good technology. Works just as well."  
"You have my DNA tagged?" Jack frowned.  
"Yes," Owen said. He turned blank, dead eyes on the pirate. "The Company has had your DNA tagged and recorded in its libraries since 1987. I checked your files. An agent called Wagner acquired it without your knowledge. Problem?"

Jack exhaled. "Not at all, mate."  
"Good."

Owen reached out and opened Jack's palm. He dropped the ring carefully and closed Jack's fingers around it.

"There isn't much juice in it left, and what it can do now seems to have been limited by wear and tear. The Company psyche profile claims you fit the bill for the will-power this thing needs to operate, and so you'll be the one doing the hard work. We have maybe an hour of use left in it at a rough estimate, so you haven't time to mess around practising."

"Practising for what?" Jack asked, distantly. He was staring at his closed fist, which glowed, faintly.

"The invisibility cloak," Owen snapped. "It's in Gringotts. That's a fortified wizarding bank. We're going to break it open."


End file.
